


This Love Won't Tear Us Apart

by Green_Destiny



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A lot of Shiro thirst, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Bathroom Sex, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Dress Designer Krolia, Established Relationship, Fluff, Former model Shiro, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Romance, Secret Relationship, Sexual Tension, Smut, Suit Fitter Shiro, Suit Kink, They're just so in love, Top Shiro (Voltron), Unrequited Love, times a million
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29207304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Green_Destiny/pseuds/Green_Destiny
Summary: Shiro and Keith fell in love while working for rival bridal shops. They’re forced to keep their relationship a secret from unsavoury eyes, but with a visit from a foreign princess right around the corner and the boss's daughter competing for Shiro's affections, even a love as strong as theirs is at risk of being torn apart.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 53
Collections: Sheithmark 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for Sheithmark 2021, slightly late but better late than never! Let me feed you some sap :)

“A very good morning to you all!”

Monday mornings at Monochrome are never dull when you have Coran as your boss.

Shiro had just turned twenty-one when he was scouted outside a Parisian-style laundromat by a white-socked, flip-flop wearing gingerman in a tailored suit. Shiro wasn't looking for a modelling gig, if that’s what this was; the deep scar across his nose, metal arm and the weird streak of white birthmark in his hair weren’t exactly agency landing features. But freshly graduated and still living on a dwindling student grant, Shiro considered the million other things that should worry him more than a socked flip-flop wearing eccentric. Needless to say, the price of rent for a one bedroom apartment around here wouldn’t see him through the next three months, probably.

The incongruity of the loud man and his inconspicuously bland looking business card made no sense to Shiro at the time that he was looking at the fashion director of the esteemed House of Monochrome, and what someone like that would want with someone like him.

 _“Ahh, fresh young seedlings. They don't know a good clothes hanger when they see one!”_ the gingerman had said, and Shiro, very rightly and resolutely, had replied with:

_"Huh?”_

For all he knew it could’ve been an insult had Shiro not taken Coran up on his modelling offer and discovered for himself that he always talks in this offbeat way. The man was, in fact, a really incredible guy, and Shiro would spend the next three years modelling the best haute menswear in the city, another two years after that as a front of house suit fitter outfitting celebrities, important people and the like.

And just a few days ago, Coran asked Shiro personally if he would head the whole branch of Monochrome’s bridal menswear.

Coran’s overly enthusiastic call to their morning’s pep talk encourages a semi-circle of dress consultants to fill out onto the floor space in front of his shocking grey and neon yellow pied-de-poule monstrosity. Shiro swears the suits get more seizure inducing as the years go on.

“Fucking savage,” Matt whispers next to him, with all the thrill of a man who wants to watch the world burn.

Coran claps his hands together. “Good! I knew this suit would sober you all up! Right, I’d like to start off with some wonderful news!”

Their weekly calendar is filled to the brim with appointments and fittings but Monday mornings are always reserved for Coran to make formal announcements, and today's the day that Shiro's promotion is officially going to be announced.

He can sense Matt's well-meaning, shit-eating grin on him already as he straightens over an invisible crease in his shirt sleeve. Matt’s the only person here who knows he's getting promoted, and he’s wearing it all over his face.

“...Little did I know that five years ago, the six foot four puppy I picked up outside Parisian Laundry would be the start of something new for this company, a new branch of the House of Monochrome tree.”

Matt’s head cocks to him. "Here it comes, here it comes."

“Shhh,” Shiro hushes.

“...It’s with his beauty and his brains that has excelled us past every one of our competitors on Bridal Row, and I’m delighted to introduce you all to the new manager of Monochrome Men's...Shiro!"

Applause erupts and Matt whoops as Shiro steps forward to shake hands with a wet-eyed Coran.

“Thank you, Coran. I’m honoured.”

When Shiro dips back from all the adulation Matt claps him enthusiastically on the shoulder. “Way to go, boss! Now you won't have to sweep the dust off the shop floor anymore like the rest of us cockroaches.”

“Ha ha,” Shiro returns the clap, but then shakes Matt’s hand with genuine gratitude. “You know nothing’s really gonna change, right?”

“Just the size of your wallet.”

“I’m just contributing to the US economy,” Shiro grins.

“Pffft,” Matt waves off.

And this is how fast friends became best friends, their liquid-quick banter, easy working relationship and bi-monthly drunk texts about failed dates rounds off Matt Holt for all the comedian that he is and all the ladykiller he isn't.

“...And remember, everyone! Only seven days until the Princess arrives! Mark your calendars!”

Matt makes a noise like a dying waif. “Ahh, Princess Allura. The only woman I’d let break me with centuries of outdated royal tradition.”

“—Congratulations, Shiro.”

Both of them turn to the voice and the face of Corina, Coran’s one and only daughter and heiress to the company. She reminds Shiro of his ex in a weird way, with her dark rimmed glasses, uptight demeanor, and jealous streak. She somehow didn’t inherit Coran’s personality or his ginger features; her dark brown hair sits in a perfect twisted bun atop her head and her immaculately red painted fingers straighten out to offer Shiro a gracious handshake.

Shiro takes it with a smile, and utters a simple, “Thanks, Corina.”

She’s known to be a cold heart in this place, as sharp and as sheer as a cliffside but only to Shiro are her sides weathered down and approachable for the simple fact that she’s been infatuated with him ever since he came to work at Monochrome.

“My father just wants to keep you here forever, I hope you know that,” she says, warm and sweet and nothing like her usual coarse temperament. “I’m starting to think he loves you more than he loves me.”

Despite acknowledging her father's apparent favouritism towards him, he brushes aside the comment along with Matt’s smirk that’s creeping into the corner of his vision. “I can’t say—” he falters mid-reply to the hand reaching forward to flatten out his lapel, being expressly forward, overfamiliar. Shiro awkwardly continues. “I...can’t say I have any plans to be elsewhere.”

"Good," Corina says, pleased, and lifts her hand away. She dips an imperceptible smile and pushes up the corner of her glasses. Matt’s grin’s gone all crooked and sideways watching the flirtatious exchange and trying not to crack.

“Anyway. Have a good day, both of you,” she says, and follows the train of bridal staff filing off to their respective departments.

Matt lets go of his face and finally blurts out, "Phew! I didn't know if I existed until she said 'both'!"

“It might kill her to not be so keen,” Shiro says, looking bemused at his lapels.

Matt knocks him on the arm. “Crushes are hard, man. It's been this long and she still doesn't look like she’s getting over you.”

Be that as it may, it shouldn't really excuse her clingy behaviour still. “There’s not really much I can do about that,” Shiro concedes. It’s progressed to a bit more than a ‘crush’. Unfortunately for her, her infatuation is a spiral that only leads down.

“Trust me, that girl is _ice_ but she melts schoolgirl sweet around you,” Matt continues, as they head out with the others and make their way to the Men’s department on the first floor. “In a way it makes me relieved to see her exterior crack to know there's something soft underneath. I think it’s still a miracle she hasn’t worked out that you’re gay. It’s like your modelling days all over again, they all wanna be around you, the Pied Piper of hotties.”

“How is that my fault?” Shiro protests.

Matt snorts and starts listing off, “Shiro: fifty foot tall, golden boy consultant, not just a six pack but an eight pack, a chiseled by the God’s jaw line—”

“Oh _come on,_ ” Shiro complains. He's more than just his physical looks.

“Those models you did shoots with — Rebecca, Diana, Isabelle — how many of their advances did you have to turn down?”

Okay, he has a point there. Unwanted advances were par for the course for all the men and women he modelled with. “I don't mix business with pleasure. I'm strictly a professional."

“ _And gay_ ,” Matt tacks on, “What heterosexual guy _wouldn’t_ turn down a model if she came and sat right in your lap like it’s her job.”

Shiro sees a losing battle and rubs at his temples.

“It’s what happens when you don’t give off that...that vibe.” Matt gestures vaguely with his hand.

“A what now?” Shiro questions, laughingly. The correct choice would’ve been not to venture down this road with Matt when he’s seen all the goings on in Shiro’s life from a front row seat.

“I mean, you’re probably the least ‘gay’ gay guy I’ve ever seen, and we see a lot of them in this place. But then again, the same thing applies to Keith—”

“Alright, conversations over, time to do your job,” Shiro cuts him off and slaps a hand on his shoulder that propels Matt through the threshold of their department.

Opening time isn’t for another half an hour but there's already a gathering of people outside like congregating birds. In the middle of March the sidewalks are swept up in a pink storm of cherry blossom petals, and everywhere you look feels soft and slightly out of focus like a Ghibli film.

Shiro finds a frozen moment through the blizzard of pink to catch a glimpse of the jet-black head of hair in the upper floor of the glass fronted shop across the street. He’s crowned in delicate focus, eyelashes cast down and hunched forward on a low stool pinning appliqué lace patterns to the hem of a wedding dress. His hands work tirelessly and Shiro thinks how he could lose a whole day because of it, his perfect zen tuned to the one he loves the most.

"Ahh, your forever boy.” Matt arrives at his side like a shadow slotting itself into a moment where it doesn't belong. “He's the only one that makes you go a big wobbly one." Matt’s abandoned his sarcasm somewhere and stays contemplative for as long as Shiro stays looking. Shiro finds Matt usually holds his tongue around matters regarding Keith, he’s far more approving of this relationship than his last one by an ocean, and that ocean never runs out of things to say about him.

“God, but he’s _so_ cool. Some days he’s got those ripped jeans and other days he’s got that virgin killer gym vest, and just when you thought he couldn’t destroy you more with the leathers and the buckles he pulls out that three piece suit, ooof.”

Sheith raises an eyebrow at him. “That’s a little _too_ much observation.”

Matt covers himself, feigning innocence. “I mean, I'm a professional too. From an aesthetic standpoint, your boy knows how to dress.”

“Alright alright, time for work.” Shiro smacks the center of his back and Matt straightens with a jolt.

"So what's on the schedule today, boss?"

Shiro crosses over to the front desk to retrieve his tablet and sifts through the appointment timetable as Matt perches his hip on the backrest of one of the leather Chesterfield’s.

“We have four back to back suit fittings before twelve, and then a consultation with a group of five groomsmen after one. Think you can handle all of them?"

"Would'a thought that was more your thing. But we could tag team.”

Shiro withers him a look. “Matt…”

Matt’s already holding up his hands. “I’m just saying! I'm not nearly as good at taking on that many guys as you are.”

“You have an actual qualification in that required skill."

“Gimme the solo appointments,” Matt says, pushing off the backrest and throwing a ribbon of measuring tape over his shoulders. “It’s Monday morning; have a heart."

He disappears into one of the fitting rooms and Shiro marks himself down onto the schedule for the afternoon appointment, because Matt’s right about him being the better choice, Matt’s not so charming when he has four other ego’s to contend with.

He puts the tablet down and stretches the crick in his back, and when he glances back to the window there are two dark eyes looking his way, and one eyebrow slanting up now that he knows he’s been caught. Shiro can't help being unapologetically lost in the cuteness of it. He couldn’t be more in love every time he looks at Keith; this is the man of his dreams, his ultimate, the one he's going to share his name with one day. This is his life wearing his stolen hoodie that’s been missing for weeks, surrounded by angel white chantilly lace like the misplaced innocence wouldn’t melt Shiro right at his feet.

Keith takes out his phone and Shiro mirrors him even before he knows what he’s doing. It vibrates in his hand.

[ **Keith:** I wish I woke up next to that smile this morning ]

Shiro smiles impossibly wide at his phone, his heart overflowing with the same resounding wish. They’ll fix it for tomorrow.

Keith keeps typing.

[ **Keith:** So did they…? ]

[ **Shiro:** Coran officially promoted me today. ]

He looks over to see Keith pump a fist and loves the pure happiness of his celebration.

[ **Keith:** Congrats baby. Its about time!! ]

[ **Shiro:** Thanks babe. Maybe tomorrow night we can celebrate. I wanna treat you ]

[ **Keith:** shouldnt this be me treating you? ]

[ **Shiro:** You already are. ]

[ **Keith:** What? How? ]

Shiro tips his eyes up and stares longingly at his love standing amongst the messy pile of silks and laces, and snaps a picture.

[ **Keith:** Did you just take a pic? ]

[ **Shiro:** I wanna bury you a hundred times in all that lace. ]

It tips Keith's head down, making him blush, a lock of hair falling from behind his ear. He's beyond perfection.

[ **Keith:** Cant believe ur tryna fold me like that ]

[ **Shiro:** I’m always pleased to see it works. ]

[ **Keith:** maybe you owe me dinner just for that ]

[ **Shiro:** Who said anything about dinner? ]

The shift in Keith's expression, the adorable brainfreezing moment of food denial that purses the perfect cupid bow of his lips couldn't grab Shiro's heartstrings any more than it already does.

[ **Keith:** youd do that to me?? ]

[ **Shiro:** God baby youre so adorable, I cant wait to kiss you when I get let off. ]

Keith blushes harder and turns away so Shiro can only see the tips of his ears go pink. Keith’s nearly smothered in the moment but conceals it when Krolia’s long figure emerges through the drape of fabrics and Shiro watches Keith wipe his face and compose himself on the spot to talk with her. After she leaves he sends a final flow of texts.

[ **Keith:** sorry I gotta go ]

[ **Shiro:** Saved by mom. ]

[ **Keith:** yea… ]

[ **Shiro:** Tell her I said hi. ]

[ **Keith:** Come over and tell her yourself ]

Keith says this knowing full well the implications it would bring. Of all the places where their lives weren’t allowed to meet, Shiro had to fall for the son of their company’s rival, or as he’d rather put it, in ten million blue moon coincidences, he chanced upon the one person that was made for him, his whole world in a single person that’s everything warm and rhapsodic and as explosive as a star, yet they must appear to everyone as strangers.

It hurts Shiro to have to be the one to create the distance.

[ **Shiro:** I’ll see you for lunch, baby. Love you. ]

[ **Keith:** Love you more ]

Shiro watches Keith disappear into the store and it’s a relief, almost.

Running away with his heart will only get himself found out and the less attention drawn to them, the less rumours will reach the boss and his jealous daughter. It’s unreasonable to pry into people's privacy like that, Shiro knows, and every time Keith calls it unreasonable to his face Shiro wants to give him eight looks of pity and burn through as much intimate affection as Keith will tolerate just to placate him. The ache of having to watch Keith from a window already weighs him down like lead.

He pockets his phone and gathers himself, quieting the constant rush of his thoughts gathering in his headspace. He’s a manager now, he has a team and expectations that this newly minted position requires of him, and a full schedule — appointments, client orders. The tandem rustle of things going on around him; suits being wheeled in from the alterations department, garments ready to be racked and re-tried on, the assistants work efficiently, streamlining their morning so it runs as smooth as clockwork. Even though he essentially commands the floor now, banality of routine means Shiro still stuffs himself between aisles of plastic-wrapped suits in the backroom and re-organises everything to where they should be. Matt calls him an animal for doing everything by eye and not by colour coded tag, but by now Shiro has all the styles and fabrics memorised he could pick them out in the dark, so maybe it takes a kind of animal.

“—Shiro, are you here?” he hears from outside the fitting room. With the door wedged open he can see a certain bun wending its way amongst the merchandise towards the front desk and dumping a pile of company catalogues with a thud that Shiro hears even through a layer of concrete. Corina waits there for him to emerge and makes a show of flattening out her attire like it’s taken a physical toll.

"The new catalogues," she says, puffing a sigh.

Shiro knows just by looking at them. He used to be in these once upon a time.

“My father says to promote the new Spring/Summer designs as much as possible — the Jacques-Louis’ and the Gostford’s, see here—” She sidles up to him until their bodies are a whisper away from touching, and she flips through the latest designs and tailorings, giving off flirtatious cues with her body language. Shiro has to humour all of it.

Subconsciously he’s not even in the room with her, he's with Keith putting him into all of these suits, imagining the folds and lines showing off his trim waist and sharp shoulder line, the delineation of his luscious thighs...

The book closes down on his daydream with a weighty thump and Corina slides the rest of the catalogues over to him. “I’ll leave them with you to look through. Besides, there’s a more important job I need you for.”

There’s vague dread in his stomach. “What kind of job?”

She adjusts her glasses and her cheeks darken slightly, flaring when Shiro leans away from the table and inadvertently brushes against her arm. “The Lavinia dress samples for the royal wedding have come in from Milan. They’re ready to be unboxed.”

Shiro looks bland for a second. "What does that have to do with me?”

"You're a manager, as I am a manager, and in preparation for her royal highness’s visit we should be the first ones to assess the new stock so her consultation runs as smooth as possible.”

“I...don’t know how helpful I’d be, dresses aren’t my area of expertise.”

"Wedding dresses for royalty usually have enormous trains. We’ll need all the hands we can get, and yours are the strongest.”

Not the reasoning he would've expected, but he settles on a calm note of, "Alright," if it's for the good of the appointment.

"Tomorrow,” she says, before Shiro has time to ask or even negotiate the calendar. "Tomorrow, after closing time, come to my department.”

"Alright," Shiro repeats, as measured as he was the first time, and Corina smiles so wide it's an uncanny valley.

"Maybe we can freshen up these window models before she arrives," she goes on to say, walking over and inspecting the dressed male mannequins. "We can't be seen to be unimpressive like others on this street." She’s specifically referring to the shop opposite to them, if her derision has any telling. "Urgh, that Krolia,” she scoffs. “Still trying to make her stupid designs happen. Not while we’re around."

If she’s not melting when she speaks to him, Corina has a razorblade tucked into every word when making comments towards Krolia and Krolia Bridals. And just like every other passive aggressive dig she makes, Shiro always has to let it go with infuriating calm.

She moves away from the window and waits half a beat to turn away. "Right, I better return. See you, Shiro.”

Shiro’s never been happier to watch her go. He gets out his phone again.

[ **Shiro:** I’m sorry baby, can I see you tonight instead of tomorrow? ]

[ **Keith:** Of course. is everything ok? ]

[ **Shiro:** I got pulled into something after work. I’ll make it up to you. ]

[ **Keith:** You never have to. My mom’s making Korean hot pot tonight, do you wanna come over? ]

[ **Shiro:** I’d love to. ]

[ **Keith:** Will I still see you for lunch? ]

[ **Shiro:** You can count on it. Can’t wait. ]

“Who were you talking to?” Matt says from behind him before he's able to read Keith's last message. “Was that the boss?”

"No, just Corina,” Shiro says, sounding entirely unconcerned.

"Damn, she was here while I was in the back? What did she want?"

“She brought those," he thumbs to the stack of large hardcover catalogues, "and to draft me into spending my evening sorting out dresses because apparently that's my job now."

"What? You switching departments?"

"No, she wants me to help her go over new stock for the princess with her. They’re ‘heavy’ apparently, and she needs a strong pair of hands.”

Matt’s mouth curls up mischievously. "That sounds cosy.”

Shiro eyes roll. "Please.”

“She should’ve just asked me!" Matt slaps his bicep. "This bitch can push a car fifty metres with the handbrake down.”

“Did you ever get that carburetor problem fixed on your Capri?” Shiro asks, for the purposes of changing the subject.

“Nah. You can hardly find parts for old gas cars anymore. Even dad had a go and he thinks it’s as good as junk. Maybe wonderboy can take a look at it before I end up cutting my losses and selling it for scrap money.”

Shiro thinks Matt’s going to have to settle for the cash because Keith doesn’t touch old, pre-electric technology. It’s not worth the oil and the smell of grease on his skin for weeks. “You can only ask him, and he can only tell you no,” Shiro chuckles.

The morning calmness ends abruptly at 10am when their doors officially open for customers and waves of giddy brides-to-be to stream in, and all Shiro can do is count down the hours until he gets to wrap himself around Keith and have a moment’s peace.

* * *

He always meets Keith at Hunk’s Hawaiian diner about half a mile up the road in an inconspicuous part of Bridal Row which could otherwise pass for Little Paris. They’ve had this thing worked out since day one of the relationship, a blessed hour in the middle of each day where they can be together, something they’d otherwise be forbidden to do thanks to the powers that be.

Winding through the lunchtime human rush of Hunk’s diner couldn't keep Shiro from being distracted by the single man seated in the back-most booth, eyes deep into paperwork and gnawing his lips in concentration. Here is where every one of Shiro’s woes, every mental ache is vanquished.

Keith puts down his paperwork as soon as Shiro approaches the table and smiles, reaching for the lapels of his suit to tug him into a kiss.

“Hey, big boy.”

All of Shiro’s bones go soft at the teasing greeting, heat and blood tingling in his lips and flowing out through his sternum where Keith’s palm rests. Who knew he needed a kiss so badly. "Hey, baby. Have you been waiting long?" he says, taking the seat opposite.

"Nah. Got here a few minutes ago just before the big rush.” He nods his head towards their friend running around for frenzied customers behind the open kitchen. "Look at him, you ever seen that big guy move so fast?"

Shiro swivels round to watch Hunk multitasking platters like the Olympic sport of it was invented in his kitchen. "He should be used to it now. There's a review column about this place in the paper nearly every week.” He turns back and Keith’s biro is gliding over his notes again. “More revision?”

“Just some last minute stuff they want us to complete by next class,” Keith answers, still looking down.

It feels like Keith’s been cramming forever for this assessment, his last one before he has to take the exam for the Galaxy Garrison. A summer date looms, which, depending on his mark, determines whether he’ll get in or be placed into an ordinary pilot program and having to wait another year, something neither of them want to contemplate. “Do you think you’ve got everything covered?”

“Yeah, no sweat,” Keith mutters in concentration, the luxuriant mop of his jet-black hair falling in front of his face as he scribbles one last thing into the margin and slips the papers back into the folder.

Now that his attention has been freed, Shiro’s metal arm reaches over to take Keith’s hand and brushes against his knuckles until Keith’s tilting his head bashfully into the crook of elbow to hide an adorable blush.

“So how did your morning go?” Keith starts, speaking his words into his elbow.

Shiro’s looking down at their hands, playing his thumb in the lifeline crease of Keith’s palm. “Well, apart from Coran announcing my promotion it was, yknow, the usual stuff. There isn’t much variety in fitting suits, sadly. What about yours?”

“Same old, same old. Mom’s got me pinning the new lace designs she’s been working on. It’s fiddly as fuck and she doesn’t have the patience for it, you know her.”

“I think she knows that you’re more than capable for the task. You’re good at everything you do.”

Keith snorts, leaning back and fidgeting in his seat. “I think she just likes giving me the donkey work.”

There’s a half-truth in that, how mother’s complain about their sons going wayward when they’re not up to something useful. In her own quiet way, Krolia puts Keith to work to break the endless brain-numbing assignments and self-study sessions that plague her son’s mental health. Watching television annoys him. Reality shows make him faintly homicidal. And before Keith tapped into lacework, home life was mother and son mud-slinging insults to each other and Krolia was starting to reach the end of her rope. Shiro’s convinced now that her decision to put Keith to good use has actually worked.

“You’re amazing, baby, you’re so talented, you can do anything, I’m so proud of you,” Shiro says, the praise a stream of consciousness flooding Keith into slanting down and hiding his heated face again.

“I see lace patterns in my dreams, Shiro,” Keith complains with a withering laugh.

“At least you don’t have to sew it on afterwards,” Shiro chuckles, watching Keith shrivel at the thought.

“Never going near a sewing machine, fuck that.”

“I could show you how to put a three-piece together,” Shiro says, his eyes going dark, playful.

Keith sears back, “I’d rather see you in it, or out of it. I’m not picky.”

“ _—Ahem._ ”

Their eyes swing in unison to the waitress as she beats her pen against her order pad. Slender and wasp-faced, she clicks the wad of chewing gum in her mouth. “You guys ready to order or are ya’ gonna sit there like a pair of disgusting lovebirds and make me regret dumping my latest squeeze?”

‘Ezor’, according to her nametag, a stand-in for the gloomy Acxa, flashes them a toothy grin as an afterthought despite being as personable as a New York dock worker.

Shiro looks at Keith who’s glowing back at him with an endearingly blank face. “Shall we just get our usual?”

Keith shrugs a nod.

“In that case we'll both have two Saimins and coconut rice.”

Ezor scribbles onto her pad and pops an obnoxious bubble. "You want drinks with that?"

"Just water." Shiro claps the menu closed and hands it back to her with a customer serviceable smile. "Thank you."

She pops another bubble and flicks her tongue over a sharp canine, taking a gratuitous roam over the two of them with zero subtlety. "Hey, if it doesn't work out between you two I’ll date one of ya.”

It bounces off both of their foreheads and they stare, dead-faced, as she sashays away into the sea of customers.

"Did she just suggest we'd break up?" Shiro asks, frankly offended.

"Unbelievable," Keith seconds with a shake of his head.

Shiro's hand's already finding Keith’s again, winding itself around his wrist, the tip of a matt-black finger stroking over his fourth knuckle. He looks thoughtfully at it before opening up. "I’m sorry for having to change our plans.” He takes Keith’s hand and brings his lips to it, pressing a kiss to the center of his palm when Keith begins rolling his eyes.

"Stop apologising, Shiro. I keep telling you.”

Shiro cherishes the tiny flick to his cheek that comes with it. "I know, baby, but I always wanna make right on the plans I make with you.”

Keith shrugs. “It can’t be helped. It’s your job, what can you do, right?”

“My job is from 9am to 5pm. Every other hour I’m yours.” Shiro lowers the hand to the table and plays with it, stroking along a knuckle and tracing a vein on the fourth knuckle where he visualises a wedding band would sit.

“Wrong. You’re mine at all hours. Don’t forget that,” Keith insists, bending his knuckles so their fingers casually entwine. Aside from the heat it conjures, Shiro’s still learning the sharp edges of Keith are a scary, sexy minefield. “She told you to stay, didn't she? The boss’s daughter.”

Shiro's smile falters slightly at the mention of Corina. “How did you know?”

“I saw you two talking,” Keith reveals nonchalantly, overturning his cutlery a few times.

It’s never a spot of contention for Keith knowing that the daughter of Shiro’s boss is continuously infatuated with him, and at every opportunity saddles Shiro with tasks that keep him close to her. Shiro knows who he belongs to.

"We’re having a visit from a princess soon, from that newly declared country over in Europe. The boss won't stop reminding us."

Keith’s eyebrows lift. He’s known Shiro to have all sorts of celebrity and political clientele, but never royalty. "Is she actual royalty or some pageant girl or something?”

"No she's legit. She’s next in line for the throne after her father, King Alfor.”

“Huh,” Keith says, impressed. “That’s not something you see everyday.”

“Right? So everyone's running around left and right, and for some reason the bridal department needs my help and I just…"

"Can't say no, right?" Keith finishes for him, with a knowing tilt of his head. "That's so like you. Selfless to a fault.”

Shiro goes soft. He wonders what made him that way, as selfless as Keith says he is. Perhaps an eleven year old boy who donated his arm to finding a cure for his debilitating disease wouldn’t be too concerned about making selfish decisions. Except when that boy grew up and found the one thing that makes him want and _want_. "What better man to make me selfish.”

Keith smirks. "I'm that damn thoughtful."

Ezor chooses that moment to return with their drinks and clatters them carelessly onto the table, spilling some water near Shiro’s elbow.

"Sorry," she says, like the lie written all over her horseshoe grin as she mops the splatter with her apron too close for Shiro's comfort. She isn’t fooling anyone.

“Let her dream,” Keith says when she's out of earshot, laughing behind his glass. “That’s why you’re always getting called to the women’s department. You’re like crack to them, and all you have to do is exist.”

Any time his boyfriend talks this way about his objectification, Shiro wants to reach over the table and do something obscene to him, in public. Their eyes are fixated on each other with a dangerous glint of mischief sparkling up. Shiro can be weak sometimes. "Maybe if you were at my last job I would never have left.”

Keith tuts, gaze stroking him all over, "Such a honeytrap.”

"You’re one to talk. You've got Matt steaming up and he's as straight as an arrow.”

“Matt just wants me for his car,” Keith scoffs.

"He still hopes you’d take a look at it, actually.”

"That old thing belongs in a museum.”

"If anyone could fix it it'd be you.

"Might be hard to find the time with school and all, and...y'know, if I get into the Galaxy Garrison.” His eyes cast down and a sudden sombreness befalls them, even when their food arrives and he’s scowling the whole time he slurps up his noodles.

"Is something on your mind, sweetie?"

Keith’s lost somewhere that Shiro doesn’t know how to venture to; he assumes it’s anxiety about his upcoming exams, spending night after night reviewing flight footage and notes with endless red pen written in the margins. Keith currently sits on the interstice between landing his dream and it being shelved, always waiting in the background. Shiro can’t imagine the pressure he’s facing.

Keith finishes chewing and then tips him an unsure half-smile. "It's nothing,” he says, “I’m just looking forward to Mom flipping her shit when she finds out I’m bringing you to dinner."

* * *

Shiro never suffers from the overabundance of love Keith’s mother has for him. She goes from serene to a hundred right there in the front doorway when she opens it and brings him in for a tight hug. He’s gripped too tightly to drift along to Keith, who takes the bags in his hands wordlessly and lets his mom have her moment of happiness with him.

"My sweet son, you’ve finally grown a conscience and brought Shiro to me,” she gleams.

“It’s hardly been a week, mom,” Keith says from the kitchen.

“My spiritual energy was getting low.”

“You don’t even believe in that shit.”

“Shhh!” She hushes in her son’s direction and turns to Shiro again. This fiercely ambitious business rival with her small storefront that’s led to arguments in the Monochrome breakroom greets him like his own mother would, presses a kiss to his temple and smooths her hands over his hair, familial and close.

He’s so accustomed to Keith’s face that he sees him in all her angular features and slender elegance, and her excitement is a little too candid that it flusters him into teenage stuttery, betraying all the things he doesn’t feel ready to tell her yet, like how much he wants to marry her son.

“How was your day, dear? You must be tired.” She ushers him inside and takes his jacket and shoes.

“I’m—I’m good, thank you. I brought you a few little things,” gesturing to where Keith’s rifling through the bags of extra ingredients in the kitchen.

“Oh, you’re so thoughtful.”

She already has everything prepared — meat, vegetables, dumplings, there’s barely a space left on the kotatsu at the centre of the room. Beer joins everything on the table, Keith’s favourite, with the gold gilded tiger missing its teeth.

He hasn’t even greeted Keith yet before Krolia’s shuffling him towards the table. “Keith wont allow me to take care of you.”

"There's nothing wrong with beer taking care of him," Keith chimes in, snapping two cans out of the ring and handing one to Shiro along with a welcoming kiss to Shiro’s scandalised frown.

Shiro feels like biting him, can practically feel the edge of Keith’s mouth quirk up against his lips in roguish delight. “You wanna stay at your mom’s tonight, don’t you?”

Keith’s voice is adorably broken afterwards when he’s laying out the extra ingredients and mirroring his mom’s organisation of them, wading through a conversation about some terrible drama playing in the background that Krolia’s been a fan of from day one and Keith can’t stand.

Once they’re all sitting around the table, Shiro tells them about the princess that’s coming to their store.

“She’s a real princess?” Krolia asks over the sizzling bubble of the hot pot, her chopsticks stopping midway adding more meat to Shiro’s full plate.

“She's the daughter of a British monarch, so yeah. Her husband-to-be is Prince Lotor of Altea.”

"Oh yeah, I heard about that. They broke away from France right?"

"Something like that." Or so Shiro's read. King Zarkon has the tendencies of a maniacal despot who probably threatened a piece of land for himself. "She’s an astronaut too, apparently.”

Keith’s head leaps up, talking around a cheekful of food. “No fuckin’ way.”

“I know, what a small world, huh?” Shiro says, his smile easy.

“She sounds so accomplished. Dressing someone like that would be the highlight of my career, I think.” Krolia turns to her son and smiles, “She could give you some pointers, Keith.”

He pokes around for some dumplings and falls into a thoughtful silence, one that usually comes over him when he thinks about his future. “I mean…hell yeah, the chick’s been into space,” he murmurs, shoving a morsel into his mouth and chewing.

“I saw the dress design Keith was helping you with in the window. It’s already stunning, can’t wait to see it once it’s complete.”

“Ohh,” Krolia bubbles over with the praise, “If only I could say it was for a princess. It’s a bit far off from being finished. I want it to make a serious statement.” Krolia emphasises with a firm air-chop of her hand.

Shiro’s been one to witness Krolia’s huge ambition right from the start. The fashion world is cutthroat; businesses have come and gone, and her small store front, swallowed between two other multi-fronted Monochrome boutiques, stands a minnow in a pool of sharks. Her store thwarts Monochrome from extending their chain and monopolising the whole of Bridal Row. No matter how much money they offer to buy her out or how many underhanded ways they’ve tried to frighten her off, she remains obstinate out of sheer perseverance. And of course, they hate her for it. But none of that stops her.

All of Krolia’s dresses seem to hit a market that's untouched by the ateliers at Monochrome. She’s probably the only designer on Bridal Row that uses a 3D printer to print patterns and motifs to sew on her dresses, as well as a signature, unearthly material she’s named ‘Luxite Silk’ that conducts with the wearer's own energy to shimmer like impossibly iridescent angel dust. The technology fused in her dresses makes her brand unique in its visual language, and has been reliant on word of mouth and a savvy social media presence for her reach. Though, having Keith in the window is probably better than any marketing budget. Shiro’s never known someone to be so unaware of his draw when clients sail through the door.

Despite all of this, despite the severity of the volatile atmosphere between the two businesses, Krolia’s always used the hostility as her main motivation for succeeding; from widow to struggling single mother to a start-up business owner with the tenacity to do something different. Both businesses will always be at war, unfortunately, and rather than live around an armed bomb, Keith’s the one unafraid of the risks, not afraid of their relationship bleeding all over a Monochrome contract. Shiro always wishes their circumstances could’ve been simpler.

They both kiss Krolia goodbye at the door and are made to take the two full bags of leftovers she’d boxed up when they were putting their shoes on. A mother’s love is always pushing food onto her loved ones, and well, Shiro’s Asian so he doesn't have a mode for turning down food but Keith will always grumble that there’s no more space in the fridge. It’ll alleviate his lunch worries for college tomorrow, he supposes.

Walking to the car, Shiro can sense unease again in Keith. Their hands separate and Keith drifts to the passenger side, keeping his head down as he gets in and buckles up. He knows by the way Keith doesn't speak and remains quiet for most of the car journey that it’s anything but ‘nothing’. “You seemed a little quieter than usual today, babe. You sure everything’s okay?”

“Yeah of course,” Keith says, quietly. “Just tired, is all.”

“Alright,” he replies, acquiescing. Shiro’s still apprehensive. He wishes he could see more of Keith in the darkness of the car and have it set his mind at ease that there's nothing Keith wouldn't tell him. They have absolute trust in each other. Shiro trusts that Keith will tell him when he’s ready.

Keith presses his temple to the window and the marked silence hangs, overly large. Still, Shiro lets him have this space to himself, even as Keith feels for his hand and brings it over into his lap when the car rolls to a stop at a traffic light.

There are some people in this world who can only truly love one person. Shiro thought that person would be Adam once upon a time; his smile so approving, looking at Shiro like he was more than what he was, and in the end, he’d turn his back on him. It took being with Keith to know those desolate plains within Adam were no place to build a home. He loves Keith like home is built into the palm of his hand, and all of their shared affections are stored away in that one gesture; the language of softly knitted fingers.


	2. Chapter 2

With the morning sun, Shiro wakes in a tangle of limbs and Keith’s body molded into his side. He turns to check the time on his phone and Keith stirs with his movement, curling around him more until he finds that pillowy section of Shiro’s armpit and lat muscle to nestle into, and glides his thigh against Shiro’s already straining groin.

A thin beam of light washes down through the curtains and bisects Keith’s sleeping form over his midsection, highlighting over the calm vision of that face, handsome and precious that it is. Shiro loves waking up to him in the stillness of the mornings, practicing for the future. Keith doesn’t always stay over, as much as Shiro wants him to. He’d given Keith a key to his place in a split moment's decision driven by a heart’s desire to have him constantly close, to come home to him instead of a hollow space missing the exact shape of him.

Shiro wraps his arms around Keith and feels the whipcord of his muscles lax and sensitive as he ghosts his palm over Keith’s back towards the curve of his shoulder, strokes those dark tresses of hair aside to press open-mouthed kisses into his hairline.

The younger man’s a little more awake by now, and he buries his face in the slope of Shiro’s neck, sighing those little gossamer sighs of pleasure that do a waltz through Shiro’s spine, and there’s no way to describe the bliss of seeing Keith open his eyes to him for the first time that day.

“Morning, baby,” Shiro says.

“Mm,” Keith hums, with the very tail end of sleep scratching his throat.

"Did you sleep okay?"

“Mm,” Keith chirps another hum, soft-eyed and bleary but gradually coming to his senses. “What time is it?”

“About a quarter to eight,” Shiro replies.

Keith doesn’t have to be in class until ten, which suits Shiro perfectly to fall into their usual morning routine full of lazy kisses and a shower, dress, breakfast, then out the door.

The younger man slings his arms around Shiro’s neck and the tight knots of desire unclench with a soft pink tongue finding Shiro’s lips and shying an addictive shudder against his parted mouth. Keith’s terribly sincere in the mornings, incandescently sweet, warm and hungry and not particularly inclined to be chatty.

"Shiro," Keith breathes, because that's all that really needs to be said for Shiro to be compelled into action.

He takes Keith easily over his body to lay chest to chest, pushes away the mass of blankets and makes more space for Keith’s legs that want to hook and cling and do not much else, which is all fine by Shiro. The whole of him is overflowing, looking at Keith like he’s been starved of light in his own personal apocalyptic hell and the pleasure of seeing him is blinding. Too much.

"Keith, baby," purrs out of him, rasping at the edges, figuring out if it wants to be a sigh or a full-on growl when Keith rolls the whole length of himself up against him. Another eager kiss and another pseudo-growl rumbles, slowly killing Shiro from the inside out.

With a small persuasion of, “Go on top, babe,” Keith curls up without hesitation and settles on his lap, reaching for everything he needs to open himself up like it’s locked on an internalised compass, and this amount of pliancy and efficiency arouses Shiro to no end. He lays back and watches Keith’s mouth fall open to groan adoringly, setting teeth against his lips so hard that it could leave a mark for every person in college to wonder if it was a fight or if the sex was just that good, because that’s what Shiro would want them to think.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” Shiro ousts from his throat and holds Keith’s hips steady as he lowers himself down and settles, quivering, and he can never explain away how much he loves Keith’s thighs, loves them in a fitted suit with a crisp leg pleat and adores them straining straddling his lap, too lazy to rise and fall so he just rocks in indolent motions, motions that makes Shiro want to throw the towel in already.

“God, _Keith_ —” He’s feeling his way down the small of Keith’s back and the curve of his ass just to lift it a little and get the momentum, but Keith’s fully hell bent on torturing his life and the next one with his head tilting sideways and pinning those dark, unfathomable eyes on him, hair plastered untidily to his wet face. “You’re so gorgeous, baby.” Gorgeous isn’t the word.

Shiro syncs with Keith’s rocks, gripping his hands on his hips and guiding him, anticipating the electric, overwhelming heat of their release. Every slick glide back onto his cock is a sin and every sigh from Keith’s lips is a throbbing ache that sears Shiro’s vision white hot. He thrusts up a final time into Keith and Keith’s lovely cock jets across his stomach, and he’s throwing his head back and sinking his fingernails into Shiro’s pecs as his hips grind them both through the waves of release.

It leaves Keith gasping in and holding his breath, desperately gripping at Shiro’s pecs so hard Shiro knows he’s going to have crescent moon marks blooming there for days to come. He wouldn’t mind being ruined all the time when Keith’s spilling over, gushing out.

“Sweetheart,” Shiro murmurs as Keith comes tumbling forward onto his chest and quietly brims in the afterglow with kiss after kiss, Keith’s mouth gone so intoxicated, gloriously expressive there’s nebulas behind each one of Shiro’s eyelids.

Keith senses return to him once again, with his fragile shivering breaths evaporating against Shiro’s hot skin, evening out as he lays tucked into his neck, so smooth to the touch Shiro wishes to monopolise all of him and never let him out of his sight. Shiro repositions him closer to kiss him along his jaw and over his cheek, moves the locks of dark hair tickling his clavicle and Keith does something so uncharacteristic it makes him double-take; he giggles, easy and cute, now that all the urgency has dissipated.

“Hey,” Shiro says, quietly laughing, carding his black-matt fingers through Keith’s damp locks and seeing his violet-umber eyes agleam behind dark lashes.

“Hi,” Keith returns with a smile beating Shiro to a love-struck pulp in the intimacy that one tiny word brings.

Shiro holds him closer and Keith nuzzles into his collarbone, loops an arm over Shiro’s waist with all the lassitude of falling into an afternoon nap. But their day is only beginning.

* * *

Keith gets to talking around breakfast, mellowed out after a shower and dressing together like they always do. He’s always been a slow riser regardless of how often they have sex in the morning, but not for a single second they've spent together has Keith ever been unexcited about food at any given hour.

He has everything in front of him, all the plates, all the condiments, everything that goes with cinnamon French toast, scrambled eggs and blueberries and multitasks ravenously between them. He rips a bite out of his cinnamon toast and adds too much sugar and cream to his coffee and Shiro’s mug is halfway to his lips when Keith sparks up with conversation.

"They were showing us these sim tests of what it would look like to be right at the edge of a black hole, y'know, at the event horizon, right before you get sucked in.”

He’s bubbling over explaining a collapsed star to Shiro, and how it could potentially unlock time travel if they can understand it, and why time travel is necessary if they’re going to hope to explore more of the universe.

“...And I mean, everything that lies beyond a black hole is theoretical, but if the black hole wasn't a void but a singularity merged with another blackhole from another dimension, then the exit point would be on a different plane of the universe entirely.”

“But how would you be able to go through without being crushed?” Shiro says, fully absorbed in the conversation.

“Well...that’s what no-one’s figured out yet. The short answer’s always that you’d be crushed. Nothing can withstand that much gravity. But the other proposal is to manually warp space and time to open up a portal.”

“Like a wormhole,” Shiro suggests.

“Exactly!” Keith enthuses. “But the wormhole’s gotta be stable enough to stay open otherwise it’s a one way ticket.” The wormhole in this case is expertly represented by the salt and pepper shakers and a blueberry as the singularity. Keith’s trying for a layman’s explanation to give to Shiro and the whole time Shiro’s entrenched in Keith’s intelligent, incisive mind letting out all of the boyish excitement coiled inside of him; the mesmeric way he talks about the universe, all his sentences running into each other, Shiro’s come to realise he’s competing with Keith’s first love.

"...and they say that looking at the light at the edge of a black hole is the most beautiful light in the entire universe."

"Hnn. _Where we're going, we won't need eyes_ ," Shiro screws with that line from that film that they both love and they laugh together.

The amusement inevitably fizzles out as they’re heading out the door, Keith to go to college and Shiro to go to work. Shiro kisses him for a full minute before he has to let him go, lost between the warm meeting of lips and a selfishness that wishes Keith would tell him he can afford to miss this class so they can fall back into bed. For a singular, brief moment, it’s the perfect bliss.

“You’ll be home late tonight, right?” Keith says, pulling away and licking over his lips with a sweet, burning blush.

For a quiet heartbeat, Shiro forgets all about his overtime tonight. “Ah shit, yeah. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Certainly looked like you needed a reminder,“ Keith smirks, flattening his palms over the front of Shiro’s shirt and eliding an imaginary wrinkle.

"I want a million reminders, but not for that," Shiro chuckles. He keeps up with the fascination Keith has on one of his shirt buttons, fastening it and unfastening it, and not making much of a move to leave like the effort could kill him. As much as Shiro would want to keep doing this in the doorway forever, he doesn’t want to be the reason Keith's late at such a crucial time in his course. He kisses Keith for the last time before opening the front door. “Have a good day, baby. Love you."

“Love you more.” Keith pecks a last caress of a kiss. “Have a good day too.”

* * *

“...I could’ve sworn she was following me to my car. She made eyes at me and then suddenly I’m like every guy that’s ever been looked at like a delicious piece of meat, so I stall a bit, wait for her to catch up to me...only for her to give me the Subway card that I dropped!”

Shiro chuckles at yet another anecdote from Matt’s crushing mis-turn of events. "You either have the best or the worst luck.”

Matt’s taken to slumping down on the Chesterfield next to where Shiro’s dressing the mannequin for something to do before opening time, and says mournfully, "I’m scared of sleeping alone, Shiro." He wallows on the couch for Shiro to laugh at him some more. “Why can’t we fit suits for women too?”

“We do all the time. Upstairs,” Shiro says, mocking.

“It’s alright for gay guys. They get to be in a private room and have your undivided attention all to themselves.”

Shiro breathes out audibly through his nose. They’ve been through this. “Whether they’re gay or not, it makes no difference to me. I’m just doing my job.”

“They buy the cheapest suits in here and say it was measured by you just to resell them online to make a buck. All it takes is a Monochrome label. I’ve seen proof.”

"They what?” Shiro snaps to Matt.

“You don’t know?” Matt shoots him a look, doesn’t know why this is such a calamitous revelation to Shiro. “Oh yeah, Monochrome suits are flying out the door on Instagram if ‘ex-hot model’ Shiro’s name is attached.”

“They’d use me like that?” Shiro has the nerve to look scandalised.

Matt snorts, “Yeah, the combination of you and social media is quite bad.” He takes his phone out of his pocket and swipes through the app, finding the post with the idol-faced prettyboy and the peppy description — _’Hey guys! Another Shiro suit!! || DM me with your best offers!!’_ “This was posted two days ago. Look how many likes it’s got already.” Matt’s shoving the phone under Shiro’s nose as if ‘❤️ 2443’ will mean anything to him.

Shiro’s still failing to see how he should be responsible for what people do with their belongings. “This isn’t even about me, everyone’s just after that suit.”

“This isn’t about you...” Matt repeats dryly, “A ‘Matt Holt’ suit wouldn’t even make it onto Instagram let alone make a buck. The level of your appeal is unfair business practice."

“That’s nonsense.”

“Don’t underestimate what thirst can do. I’ve seen some of your old underwear shoots turn into ‘nudes’.”

Shiro’s head twists so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. “Wait, _what!?_ ”

“Oooooh _now_ it’s sinking in!?” Matt teases, ripping his phone away after Shiro tries to grab it.

Shiro's heart does a one-two staccato stab, a sudden, intrusive thought setting his brain alight. “Matt, please tell me there isn’t any of...y’know...me and Keith together?” he asks, taking his voice down to a hushed whisper.

Matt no sooner tosses the humour aside and flattens out his expression. “No, not that I've seen. You’re safe on that front I think.” His head then tilts to the reflection in the freestanding mirror next to Shiro when an unexpected distraction shows up.

Shiro only glances in Matt’s direction, but hears the telltale clack of ladies heels and already knows who it is.

“Corina’s been hanging around the men’s department quite a lot.” Matt peers over the backrest of the couch at her moving silhouette behind the frosted windows that divide their departments. She demands something of an assistant then sends them away, then calls someone on her phone but stays hovering in the threshold of their department, remaining a constant fixture for about five minutes.

She doesn't have the weight of Shiro's attention to take him away from his task. “She’s always around some way or another.”

“Yeah, peeping and disguising it as work,” Matt snorts.

Shiro’s fastidious to his task, folding a perfect Windsor knot in the tie and sliding it up to the mannequin’s neck. “She’s a busybody. She’s always on some kind of self-appointed assignment.”

“She’s wearing the short black pencil dress and toe peep heels combo. She must _really_ want to impress you, huh” Matt points out, being the kind, insightful friend that he is. “What time’s your date tonight?”

Shiro sighs, wry. “It’s not a date.”

“Keep telling yourself that. I think she’s ready to commit murder by seduction.”

Shiro keeps on, completely dismissive of Matt’s teasing. He fits the waistcoat onto the mannequin, smartens up the tie, and finally slips on the suit jacket with the champagne coloured silk rose boutonniere. It’s navy and ivory this season, apparently.

Matt kicks upright and spreads his arms out on the long back of the Chesterfield, continuing to blithely avoid doing anything but talk Shiro's ear off. When Shiro hardly reciprocates Matt’s eyes follow him around the room, gazing down the bridge of his nose. “Did you eat breakfast this morning?”

“...Yes. Why?”

“You look miffed.”

“I’m legitimately doing my job but I can see why that might look strange to you.”

“Damn, I thought I was too.” Matt kicks up, slapping his knees as he rises.

If it was anyone else it would’ve irritated him, but Shiro’s been coasting on the same wavelength as Matt for years now so he just shakes his head at his friend’s crooked humour. “There’s some shoes over there that need polishing,” Shiro points out.

Matt’s dispassionate groan is pure music. “They’re just under bad lighting.”

“You’re at least at least mid-level capable.”

His day hasn’t even started but already Shiro wants to be home and pillowing his head in Keith’s lap. With six appointment bookings and Matt reverted to an absolute professional, getting through the morning is a good but slow graft. And with Corina constantly hovering around their department, luring his thoughts elsewhere is starting to do his nut.

They break for lunch and Shiro can’t get away quick enough to call Keith and speak to him over ice-coffee and a salmon poke bowl at Hunk’s. His refuge is hearing Keith crack himself up on the other end telling him about his co-pilot, Lance, nearly puking himself in a sim test when Keith flew clean through a Level 8 asteroid belt.

Keith’s the only pilot in his class to have cleared all eight levels of the sim, his sims scores are the best their academy has ever produced in fifteen years, out-piloting even some of the alumni that've gone on to become decorated pilots. Brilliant and beautiful, Shiro feels the pride overflowing within him for Keith.

His ‘unsmiling boy’, Matt had called him in the beginning. It wasn’t until Shiro started dating him that Matt saw the seachange in Keith, from ‘unsmiling’ to embroidered with constant happiness, and remarked, _”No-one looks like that unless they’re getting laid twentyfourseven.”_

Shiro’s suddenly aware of the passage of time — it’s been two years, from then until now, since the day they both sat inside their window bays waiting for a storm to pass while passing the time looking at each other. Shiro happened to have a date that day too, his brain supplies, doomed from the get-go when all he could think of was the gorgeous man trying to grieve about the weather with him. It rained and rained, and they looked at each other in the silence suspended between glittering purple details that Shiro swears were in the man’s eyes.

It’s a supreme cliché, and Shiro takes it to heart digesting the sheer irrationality of falling in love at first sight, and falling in love in general, after what a failure his past relationships had been — Cody, Adam, Yuuta, and the less he remembers of his model colleague Ethan, who only wanted him for his body, the better. Keith came as an exception to all of them, a rarefied kind of beauty that left Shiro cosmically starstruck merely standing there planted in clouds of silks and fabrics. Shiro’d never felt a more irresistible draw to another person in his life, the epiphany came blinding with a renewed sense of awe when he plucked up the courage to cross the street and ask him out, and Keith had looked too meltingly fond. That about did it for Shiro’s heart.

They can’t indulge in an open air affection, they eat together in a little corner booth like friends and go their separate ways, parallel lines that only cross when there’s a moon in the sky and part with the sunrise. He didn’t want to be the cause of more bad blood between their businesses, for Krolia, mostly. He’d reasoned that much with himself, but having to watch Keith from behind a pane of glass all day is a surefire way to hike up his temptation, feeling greedier than he’s ever allowed himself to be with the depth of his attraction. And that’s just what Keith does, takes tiny bites out of his heart all the time, especially when he says:

“I’ll make you shrimp ten-don tonight,” and Shiro already wishes he was home, eating it right out of the palm of his hand.

* * *

The bridal department is three floors of tulle, crystal encrusted chandeliers and busy-bodied assistants moving like bees in a hive in all directions. As Shiro’s shoes meet the dangerously beige carpet he gets maybe ten steps in before he’s forced to dodge an assistant speeding past with a rail overflowing with frilly things, issuing him a polite and timid, “Sorry, Mr. Shiro.”

Before he can find head or tails of this place, Corina’s voice chimes up from behind him, like he’s a lost lamb that got away.

“There you are!”

She flies past with two bridal dresses draped in each arm, one of which gets dumped on him as she blitzes past and told to “Follow me,” into a bottleneck at the stockroom. And, well, Shiro was prepared for this. He follows her soft floral scent and fusses with the alarmingly fluffy garment he’s been given; everything’s overwhelmingly floral to the point of being stifling.

“We’ll put these last ones back and then get to the royal dresses,” he barely hears Corina say, blanketed in the stockroom’s clutter that swallows up the ambience like Shiro’s swallowed up by tulle. Bagging takes another kind of black magic to fit something that’s nine feet by five feet into something that’s two feet wide.

“There’s a method to every madness. Bet you won't be taking your suit packing for granted any time soon,” Corina says, as if it was written all over his forehead that this is where his skill stops.

“No, ma’am,” he says wryly.

With a press of a button a hydraulic bar takes the rack of dresses up into the ceiling where tonnes of other dresses hang on a conveyor out of view. “So that’s how they do it.” Shiro doesn’t know why he’d never thought this would be the logical way to store thousands of dresses.

“We’ve got to be creative with the space we have if we aren’t able to expand.”

He says nothing of the obvious passive aggressive dig at Krolia’s stonewalling.

No sooner is he out of one frying pan is he straight into another, this time for the huge white trunk chests stacked in a line by the wall with an official maker’s seal.

“These are for her royal highness’s consideration,” Corina says, standing only a few scant inches taller next to them. “There’s about four or five gowns in each so they’re heavy. The ones with extra long trains we’ll leave for last. Shiro, if you could grab the other end.”

He holds one end of the chest with two more girls supporting Corina on her side and they maneuver it slowly to the floor. When Corina pops each one of the clasps there’s a short cascade of excited chatter, and Shiro admits even he feels a bit of dumb anticipation to find out what all of this fuss has amounted to. The ratchet of excitement grows when the lid opens and a collective gasp reaches its pinnacle to the gleaming assortment of truly gorgeous garments.

“Careful, ladies, they’re heavily beaded.”

One by one they’re lifted out of the chest like newborns from a crib and passed to Shiro to be suspended on extra tall rails — forty-five gowns in total, with veils and accessories and shoes and birdcages, probably...Shiro doesn’t pretend to know at this point. From the rail they go out five at a time to be modeled on mannequins; that’s nine times Shiro has to transport the heavy brocade fabrics with oceans of train to be inspected and checked for defects ahead of the appointment.

Shiro picks up the slack, literally, wading through miles of material and a dwindling number of assistants he definitely hasn’t been imagining. Seven becomes six becomes four becomes three, until the very last assistant waves them goodbye and he and Corina remain the only two souls left in the whole department.

He’s starting to think it was deliberately planned this way.

“Is this all you need of me?” he asks, parking down on one of the sofas and taking a breather.

“Only for a little longer," Corina pats him on the shoulder and leaves for a minute, returning with an unexpected cappuccino and setting it down on the small table next to him. She joins him on the sofa, pulling her feet out of her shoes, and relaxes into the soft seating in the most unladylike way it actually endears Shiro. Lord knows even stuffy heiresses need to let their hair down after a long day’s work.

“There’s just…” Corina begins, sighing, “There’s just been so much tension in the department because of the princess’s visit. I need everything to be absolutely perfect for her. Beyond perfect. The publicity will be huge and dad’s counting on this for us."

"I get that she's a princess and all, but wouldn't her appointment run on the same basis as any other client?" Shiro asks.

"Any other client doesn't have forty-five one-of-a-kind dresses specially shipped in for their consideration," she tells him. “I mean, Monochrome has only been doing bridals for less than ten years, she could’ve gone straight to Vera Wang or Oscar de la Renta or one of those fashion houses but she chose us.”

Shiro sips on his coffee while Corina fills him in on the opportunistic value of designers and retailers scratching each other's backs for the sake of a special type of client. Everyone is set to gain here, with the princess’s budget well into the millions, a clientele like that only comes around once in a blue moon, and her father was keen to snap up the most luxurious, most magnificent dresses Lavinia Milan would supply him with.

“Oh, I think we've missed one,” she says, tapping absently at her lips and looking over at the empty mannequin. She puts down her coffee and her smile swings to Shiro. “Shall we dress her then?"

Shiro throws his hands up. He's already done this much, what's one more? "Sure."

They go over to the empty mannequin where the last dress hangs over the back of a chaise sofa seat. When Corina lifts it it flows like a silken waterfall, the skirt swirling with intricately embroidered curliques of lace and the bodice work inlaid with florets of gold and pearl beading. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s nice,” Shiro says, not effectively saying anything when it's objectively clear that all the dresses are beautiful.

Corina scoffs. "'Nice' is for a five thousand dollar off-the-rack. This is sixty thousand dollars at stock price.”

Shiro whistles at the sum. "That's a pretty penny."

"All you get from Lavinia Milan are pretty pennies.” She strokes the bodice work affectionately. “You see all of these beadings and embellishments? They’ll be the real pearls and gold when the designer makes the actual dress, so then you’re talking about two-hundred thousand dollars."

Shiro’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. It’s hard to quantify that many zeros and make immediate sense of it. Shiro could buy a house with that— _two_ houses, a brand new motorbike for Keith and maybe have some left over for a six month vacation in Bora Bora.

Corina nods over to the mannequin, and he’s instructed to hold the front of the bodice firm against the mannequin’s bust while she clamps the waist in and zips up the back. Blind hope is that three kilos of weight will stay in place. They can hope.

Both of them brave a step back and their suspense is without a single breath from either of them for fear even that would bring it down. They wait a second, another second, and another —

Then Corina deems it ‘Ok’ and jinxes the whole thing to fall.

“Ah!” She yelps with wild, diving hands but Shiro’s reflexively quicker, too quick, in fact, and too heavy handed with the force of his metal arm as it upends the base of the mannequin, and everything, dress, mannequin et al, tumbles down on top of Corina. Including Shiro.

Everything’s awkwardly quiet for a second, a vacuum of silence as they lie crashed out on the floor with a dress wedged in like the absolute worst, most terribly written plot of a Hallmark movie. No one would believe it wasn’t if they walked in and saw this scene right now.

Shiro goes to move the mannequin on top of Corina’s but it’s shaking; her diaphragm is shaking it as she starts dissolving into gales of laughter — _laughter_ — that in itself throws Shiro for a loop hearing it peal from her, carefree, like she hasn’t laughed for years. Her glasses lay askew and her eyes crease in the corners and Shiro’s face cracks too as he thuds back down again, laughing along with her.

It’s absolutely contagious. They can’t help it. It’s the stupidest thing but all they can do is laugh and cry and laugh.

Corina twists to look at him, colour splashed into her face and trying to say something but can’t get it out through the hysterics.

“Sorry if I hurt you,” Shiro says first, still a hilarious mess.

Corina just shakes her head, wiping the tears from her eyes. Her sprawling laughter subsides enough for her to say, “God that was funny,” and has Shiro wonder if this had been some sort of catharsis for her. She certainly seems lighter.

Shiro rises to his feet and brushes himself off, offering a hand down to her. “C’mon, you. Up you get.” It sucks the joy out of the moment but someone had to.

Her manicured hands take his proffered hand and lets Shiro haul her up. She rearranges her dress, repositions her glasses back on her nose and a section of her hair has fallen out from her bun, and still she declares, “We make a good team.”

“If that team is a disaster,” Shiro laughs in the next beat.

Shiro falls into a peculiar ease with this childish happiness in Corina. There must be a crack in the universe causing strange rifts in people, as bizarre as the girl who smiles all the way to her eyes, consumed with the sweet mindlessness of being caught in an unexpected, would-be embarrassing moment. Nothing reminds Shiro of the usual prissy, straitlaced heiress. Had she always been like this, a belly full of laughs, maybe their working relationship would’ve been a lot different.

He takes to righting the mannequin and Corina retrieves the dress from the floor. With pink cheeks she holds it to herself, the tell-tale lightness still wreathing her as she’s swings and sways the dress, twirling around with it, getting lost in the girlish reverie and the barest glimpse of a pureness in her heart, one that just wants to be loved.

She lays the dress on the back of the sofa seat, and for a second Shiro assumes she’s done with it but in his periphery Corina's black dress flutters to the floor and she steps straight out of it and into the Lavinia dress.

"C—Corina, what are you—" His shock is merited seeing her near naked and shimmying into the dress meant for the princess over her hips, holding it against her breasts and sliding her bra out from underneath the bodice.

"Can you believe I've worked in this place for five years and never once tried on a dress?" she says, openly benign to Shiro’s shock. “Do me up, please.” She presents her back and Shiro doesn't try to figure out what's going on anymore.

She’s very pointedly not making this a request, so he takes a breath and approaches her, warring internally if he’s about to open up a can of worms for himself. He slides the invisible zip over the pale expanse of her back and she gazes down at her body like there’s something besides simple joy written on her face when she smoothes her hands down her figure and asks, "How do I look?"

He never did have that knack of looking someone in the face and spouting falsehoods. It’d be disingenuous to say that she didn’t look regal like a princess, lovely when she lets the painted mask fall. “You look beautiful,” he says, the answer already fully formed when it comes out of his mouth. She sighs happily and looks down at her feet and Shiro knows he should’ve just said nothing. She probably has no idea how cruel he’s being even giving this tiny bud of hope to her.

"Would you dance with me, Shiro?" she asks when she looks up and her smile glitters like the rhinestones on her bodice, fond and real, gold catchments singing stars in her eyes.

Shiro’s shuddering to think what mess he’s driving himself into. "Corina…"

"Please?"

Apparently he’s going to keep being reckless with other people’s hearts forever.

He swallows and offers his hand up for her to take, her other hand coming to rest on his shoulder, walking her away in elegant steps before they bump into furniture. This closeness doesn’t make his heart race the same way like it does with Keith. He sees his reflection in her glasses and imagines so many other people who could’ve been where he is right now, to perhaps extend a touch to her face and stroke down her cheek. But he's never been in love with her, he can’t be and never will be. He knows this like the tides know the moon. He was hoping she'd be able to move on and not continue to suffer in false hope that that strange rift in the universe would cause Shiro to change his mind as well.

When she draws closer into the circle of his embrace she leans her head gently into his chest, softly swaying to a silent, unknown tune. She hides secrets as big as the ones Shiro hides, and a love he cannot possibly return.

It’ll only hurt them both in the end.


	3. Chapter 3

The grim weather is a match for Shiro’s current mood. He could smell rain in the air as soon as he left the house, drove to work under a dark sky with bloated grey clouds preparing for a downpour. He just hopes Keith doesn’t get caught in it on his way to college.

When he returned home last night Keith had already fallen asleep, dinner was cling-wrapped and put in the fridge, laundry washed and folded away. Nothing but the bedside light was left on, with Keith’s tablet and notes askew all over their bed and Keith sleeping face down amongst it all, overtiring himself as usual. As he regarded his sleeping face, there was a passing sense of guilt along with an unnameable ache that seized Shiro, the want to have been here with Keith, hold him, tuck him into bed, listen to his breaths peter out into sleep, but instead he was entertaining the whims of a woman who shivered and sighed at the cold comfort of his touch.

Come the morning, Keith seemed to be bathed in tension — he showered alone and hurried through breakfast alone, looking more than a little sleep weary going in and out of rooms finding what he needed for the day. Shiro expected Keith to walk straight through him had he not have caught his wrist and stopped him in his tracks, as though what he was touching breached the boundary that separated both of them. Shiro diverted him right into his arms and kissed the edges of awkwardness until he saw Keith curl a tiniest, truest smile.

It cleared some of the daze from his eyes, with the rest of him gradually softening to melt into the embrace — so used to the eternal nature of being a touch-starved introvert, Shiro sympathises.

At work, he’s been staring at the dead-end wall, zoning out on the couch and in his own headspace between fittings, and only halfway to noticing Matt’s furtive glances towards him around the store floor when he pretends to pick up things to do. Matt’s client just left and so he’s been camping at the front desk pretending to be checking the timetable while watching Shiro out of the corner of his eye. The moment their glances sync, Matt whips to look down and Shiro's pen lid sails through the air to hit him on the back of his head.

“What?” Shiro asks, posed more as a provocation than a question.

Matt picks up the lid and flicks it back to him. “Don’t _what_ me — I’m waiting for you to fill me in on your little get-together last night.”

Shiro snorts, leaning back again into the Chesterfield with a sigh. “What are you, a gossip rag?”

Matt’s Cheshire cat grin says he is. “Yeah that’s me, the dirtiest rag going!”

Keith's been the only topic on his mind all morning and he's about twelve drinks short of changing the subject to one he hardly wants to remember but the typical one track mind of Matt’s wouldn't let him have that peace. “There’s nothing really to tell,” he says, innocuously.

Matt stands and crosses the room towards him, hands in his pockets and gives a light chuckle when Shiro tries to act unaffected but can't keep a straight face. “That 'nothing' sounds a lot like something.”

“It was...odd,” he sighs, not knowing how to frame the evening in any other words that wouldn’t raise yet more questions.

Matt sits on the arm of the sofa next to him, terribly interested. “Odd...like?”

Shiro gnaws the inside of his cheek wondering how he's even going to say this without Matt getting the wrong idea. “You’re right, she’s a hundred percent cuter when she lets her hair down a bit,” he says, and immediately regrets it when his friend makes an ‘O’ face before knocking him on the shoulder.

“What’s odd about a girl being cute?”

“Well…” Shiro begins, with one long sigh that he pulls right from his gut, “I suppose I never expected her to get into one of those wedding dresses and ask me to slow dance with her.”

Matt’s eyebrows climb and he puffs up like his head’s about to blow. “Holy shit, dude, _what!?_ ”

Shiro isn’t as dramatic. “I know right, I just… _what?_ ”

Matt tries to shake off his disbelief for a wild second to make sense of this. “Wait, wait, let me get this straight, she put on a wedding dress, which means she _undressed_ , and asked you to slow dance?”

“Dropped her clothes right in front of me, yes,” Shiro deadpans, looking straight at him.

Matt grabs his shoulders and shakes him. “Christ on a bike, Shiro, if there was _one_ time for you _not_ to be gay!”

“Shhh! Keep your voice down!” Shiro shushes.

Matt quiets himself, “Shit, my bad. So, like, you saw tits and everything?”

Shiro would’ve put money on Matt wanting to know that detail …but shit, yeah. “It would’ve been harder not to.”

“Fuuuuck,” Matt exhales quietly, holding his head in a revelatory amazement, “you were living the dream, man!”

“More like I was a shoulder for her to lie on. Being caught up in the moment is one thing, but roping me into a pretty intimate situation is something else.”

From Shiro’s displeasure, Matt’s excitement quickly devolves.

Shiro falters trying to get his words out and failing. Too much has been said already that anything more would just be old history hanging out to dry like dirty laundry. He takes to capping and uncapping his pen as everything dries up in his throat. “You’re right, she still hasn’t gotten over her feelings for me.”

Matt does the sighing for both of them, slumping his shoulders and focusing on something far off. “I pity the girl. I don’t know how I’d feel to keep hoping for a love that’ll never be returned to me.”

“It would suck,” Shiro replies, honestly. “But her heart is not up to me. Mine belonged to someone else first and I’ve never given her reasons to doubt my intentions or led her on.” It’s not like heartbreak hasn’t etched a scar in him too to not be able to comprehend what it’s like to love so hard and fast that you fall through the bottom level of an abyss. When you’re in love it feels like there could never be anyone else who could replicate this feeling but that one person who looks at you like the whole universe is a sum of your total being.

Matt taps a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I dunno what to say, man, when a heart’s that heavy… Have you told Keith any of this?”

“Oh, Keith knows,” Shiro chuckles, another story entirely. “He’s known from day one and it’s a non-issue to him. He doesn’t get jealous or insecure. It’s never been like that at any point in the relationship. We’re just...we’re on a really good foundation.”

Matt nods, agreeing. “He is your forever boy after all.”

Completely and utterly, add infinity. “He’s everything to me,” Shiro says before he rises from the couch and takes a slow pace up to the window, looking wistfully through the crowded street until Matt joins him.

“That’s kind of sexy though—no homo,” Matt pushes to clarify, “that he isn’t even bothered that his man’s getting hit on all the time. Keith’s cool is off the damn scale.”

“Trust is sexy,” Shiro replies. “As if I would ever look anywhere else.” As if there could ever _be_ anyone else after Keith. “Keith’s a thousand times beautiful but being trusted by him hits way above anything physical.” Trusting in each other and loving like it's the end of the world everyday.

“You’re a wholesome boy, I’ll give you that. Some guys would ruin a soft heart like Corina’s just to get what they wanted out of it...and speaking of ruin,” Matt’s says, his attention span getting dragged away shamefully quick, “ _hello_ perfect pins.”

Shiro’s focus swings to wherever Matt’s looking. “What are you talking about?”

“A bowling club just walked into Krolia’s store.” Matt gestures to the quintet of women in sunglasses, white cotton mini-dresses, frilly blouses and mile long legs wrapped in tight denim strutting into Krolia’s store like the whole of Bridal Row was a catwalk to them. “Check out the legs on her,” Matt nods to the one in front, a picture-perfect doll of a woman in a flimsy sky-blue sundress dress greeting Krolia inside her shop.

Shiro thinks it’s ironic that he should be checking out any woman after the conversation they’ve just had — except where one of the ladies is concerned; the one Matt singled out, her ribbony figure and the curly, tawny hair colour, it nudges Shiro’s memory to remember having had it caught in one of his buttons in a photoshoot. He squints a little more, zoning in on her features, the two women trade small talk and from the way she laughs and flips her hair about, his recollection definitely remembers her from his modelling days.

“I recognise that one talking with Krolia. Her name’s Nathalie. I used to model with her.”

“No fuckin’ way!” Matt lets out in surprise. “She’s a total babe!”

“What is she doing in Krolia’s store?” Shiro feels is a more important detail to address.

“What’s wrong if she’s in Krolia’s store?”

“Nathalie’s one of Corina’s friends, and Corina would’ve made sure to ward her friends off of Krolia Bridals,” Shiro explains.

“But what difference does it make to Corina where her friends shop?”

Matt obviously hasn’t been around enough women to know how women’s gossip circles work. “When you’ve held a grudge for so long it carries on through your immediate circle as well.”

“Maybe Nathalie and Corina have fallen out.”

Shiro reckons that’s not likely. Models like her are always getting steady work through their connection with Corina. Why not buy your dress from the hand that feeds you?

"Keith's not there today I presume," Matt inquires, now looking with iciness towards the group as they disappear inside the shop and out of view.

"He's at college." _And thankfully_ , Shiro wants to add. He wouldn’t stand for whatever stunt is going on for a second.

"Good thing, probably," Matt nods.

It’s not obvious to Shiro yet, but he’s sure there's a ploy going on here. He might just be overthinking, but he can’t help the tension that rolls in the pit of his stomach. Anything tied to Corina is out in some way, shape or form to do damage to Krolia’s business. Even if it goes in as subtly as a Trojan horse in summer wedges. There’s more going on here that Shiro doesn’t know of yet. “Anyway,” he says, withdrawing back but keeping a last weary glance at the window, “don’t get too distracted. Eyes on work.”

“Yes, boss!” Matt salutes.

”—A special delivery for Shiro.”

They turn together when a consultant from Corina’s team walks into their department transporting a small polished box in her arms and approaches. “A gift from Corina to say thank you, she’s sorry she couldn’t give it to you personally, she’s in meetings all day with Mr. Coran.” A benign smile appears on the consultant’s face with likely no prior knowledge of why Corina felt the need to give him something for simply doing his job.

He looks with a little incredulity at the box, unaware of the implications it may contain if he accepts it or not, although, probably nothing good will come of it if he tells the consultant to take it back. “Tell her I said thank you,” he says, smiling cordially, accepting whatever dagger this may be. The assistant leaves and Shiro takes it over to the front desk with Matt following on his heels curiously.

“What, she’s buying you gifts now?”

The weighty, lacquered box with carved textures and the insignia of a famous whiskey logo is as luxurious as cases come — too grossly decadent to be just a simple gift, and certainly not a sensible expense. He opens the lid and inset within the black velvet interior is a tumbler, two obsidian cooling stones and a crystal cut decanter with twenty-five year old sherry oak Macallan whiskey inside.

“ _Dude_ , isn’t that like two thousand dollar executive favour whiskey?”

It really doesn’t matter how expensive it is, whatever the cost, Shiro wouldn’t feel good in himself accepting something so loaded with connotations from Corina. “You have it,” he says to Matt. It’s the only reasonable course of action he knows.

Matt’s face freezes up. “What?”

“I can’t take it, so you have it.” Shiro doesn’t need this to be hanging over his head like a bad sign.

“What do you mean you ca—Shiro! I can’t just take your gift!” Matt raves, uncomprehending why his friend can't just keep it in his bottom draw and look at it like it’s a precious antique from time to time.

“Yes you can,” Shiro insists. “It’s been received, so now I’m giving it to you.” He shuts the lid of the box and holds it out to Matt, who’s hesitant to take it.

“Shiro...”

“This isn’t just a simple gift from her. You _know_ there’s more to it than what she means by this, and that’s why it’s something I can’t accept. So take it home, give it to your dad, do whatever, just have it.” Shiro pushes the box onto Matt, obliging that he takes it. “It’ll be between us. She’ll never know.”

Matt looks mournful at the box but doesn’t refuse it. He disappears with it into the backroom and Shiro rakes a hand through his hair, his thoughts disquieted.

He's not naive, colleagues don’t just buy two thousand dollar gifts as a friendly gesture, and Shiro sure as hell wouldn’t be able to return the favour without going bankrupt. Everything’s so miswired at this point that he only has vague recollections of what their working relationship used to be like. He entertains Corina’s whims because she’s the boss’s daughter, and her direct influence feeds a lot of the pushback Krolia receives because Corina’s never met a rival who can hold her to her own game. A saving grace is not having to see her in person, but even that’s not enough to clean the air. There’ll always be another time where he’ll be holding back words, holding back a glare — the best route is to always remain indifferent.

He glances out for a second time over towards Krolia’s shop and cannot find an adequate disguise for the scowl he sees reflecting back at him.

* * *

As it turns out, Shiro was right to be suspicious about Krolia’s visitors.

"You’re fucking right that bitch trashed my mom!" Keith throws down angrily.

Somehow the storm Keith had walked in with wasn’t far off Shiro’s own mood all day. The response was immediate after Shiro had brought up the matter over leftover ten-don. He watches Keith chew furiously, his face irate, eyebrows all knotted up.

“Try on a ton of dresses with your interfering crew, kiss up to mom about how amazing her designs are only to leave and bad-mouth her all over the internet. Fucking fake bitches.” He growls in annoyance and clatters his chopsticks to the table, pushing his bowl away, too mad to eat, too mad to even look at Shiro. “I’m just sick of people always giving my mom a hard time and trying to damage her business.”

He curls in on his frustration and Shiro takes his hand gently, squeezing it to comfort. “Babe, they’ll never be able to get to her. Your mom's steady as a rock, she's seen all come her way and she’s still standing. Her reputation is enough to invalidate these spurious rumours.”

“But it doesn’t _stop_ , Shiro," Keith says, upset. "She hasn’t done anything to anyone, so why can’t they just leave her alone?”

Every sad glance of Keith’s is unbearable for Shiro’s heart. It trails him, and seems to have grown more pronounced as the days have gone on, even in those quiet, in-between hours where everything in the world is just them and nothing else. Shiro would never miss that something was eating Keith, coring him out.

The friction builds again when Keith gets abruptly out of his seat, hands clenched and knuckles white on top of the table, even more angry than he was before and Shiro softens his voice to him, finding his wrist and urges him down into his lap. "Baby, what's wrong?"

Keith holds onto the question and tilts his head back, squeezing his eyes in frustration and scratchily swallowing down. “Just...had a rough day...that prick James was hassling me again.”

Shiro knows a sidestep when he hears one. Keith would no sooner neaten up the house ‘til it’s immaculate than give a voice to what’s bothering him. “What, the same James who you punched in the mouth and told where to go before you nearly got thrown out of school, _he_ was giving you hassle?”

Keith sucks in his bottom lip and a milisecond’s worth of smile appears before it’s wiped off completely. Shiro doesn’t have the heart to tell him how adorable he looks dropping his doleful facade. He holds him, both hands clasped in the dip of Keith’s spine where it naturally curves and nudges Keith’s cheek with his nose before kissing it. “You’ve been like this since Monday,” he says, hushed, “I can tell there’s something.”

With solemn, downcast lashes, Keith breathes out slow and gradually, opens up his body language to wrap his arms around Shiro’s neck and fall into his neckline. “I spoke with my teacher today,” Keith mentions, turning his head so he’s speaking away from Shiro’s ear.

Shiro nuzzles his nape and inquires softly, “And?”

The seconds are loaded, lengthening out the delicate passage of silence, though it doesn’t slow Shiro’s heart at all. “He said regardless of my test scores, I have a place waiting for me at the Galaxy Garrison.”

The forlornness makes Shiro feel like he’s missing something here. The Galaxy Garrison — the stepping stone to the stars, where only the best pilots go on to become astro explorers, and what Keith’s been dreaming of his whole life. He should be rolling with excitement not hiding into his shoulder. Shiro feels awkward even congratulating him. “Keith, baby, why are you so unhappy? That’s amazing news.”

“It’s in Nevada, Shiro. Like eight hours away. That’s where I’ll be for...god knows how long.”

It all makes sense now, how much it’s been tearing Keith up to even talk about his future, _their_ future, if that future would be dismantling their plans of staying close to one another.

“But it’s where you’ve always wanted to be, Keith, up there amongst the stars. You’ve aced all the tests. Everything you’ve done has led up to this.”

Keith shrinks into himself and his arms tighten around Shiro’s shoulders, as if it’ll keep them from ever separating. “How the fuck are we supposed to be together if I’m on a military base half a day away? And you’ve just been promoted. I couldn’t ask you to give it all up—”

“—I swear to god, Keith, if you’re throwing away your dreams for me…” It's the first time Shiro's levelled Keith with the severity of his tone, the heat of it burning up in Keith's cheeks  
as their eyes meet in the disapproving standoff. Shiro doesn't want to show him how stretched thin he feels that Keith’s even considering throwing away an opportunity like this.

“But none of that matters if I can’t be with you,” Keith reasons, desperately, “You’re the first and last thing on my mind. Always. I can’t help it, Shiro, I don’t wanna be ripped away from you.” He cards his hands into Shiro’s hair, touching and kissing him all over out of love or just plain hopelessness that a tide would always bring him back to Shiro.

Shiro audibly sighs and touches their foreheads together and takes each of Keith’s hands, lacing their fingers together. “It’s not like we’ll be on opposite sides of the world. Domestic flights are short, I’ll take a flight out there every week to see you. It wouldn’t matter to me.”

"It would to me,” Keith frowns. “If I cut out your heart to keep it with me somewhere eight hours away, do you think it’d make me happy?" Keith withers. “I wouldn’t be able to stand seeing you for only one day a week, never sleep and wake up beside you. It’s all military, Shiro. Our lives will never be the same anymore.”

Shiro doesn’t know what to say to that, only that Keith’s right, their lives would be forever changed. He’ll say he’ll want what Keith wants and he’ll want Keith to live out his dreams but he’s realising it can’t be both.

When Shiro doesn’t say anything, Keith loops his arms around his neck again and sighs into his shoulder. “Shiro, I love you. I’m yours. I want everything with you. I want you for the rest of my life. Yeah I wanna explore space, but I want you more. I’ll always choose you.”

It’s too unfair for this to be the defining reason. Shiro’s heart’s probably turned to pulp in his chest, too overwrought to think that Keith would be happy throwing it all away for him, to think _he_ would be happy. It aches all the way down to his bones. “There’s still time to think this through, baby. You can’t give this up. You’re almost there.” The pleas bleed into Keith's neckline and he tightens his hold, cradling Keith with steady rocks back and forth. “Baby, please. _Please_.”

Keith holds on, breathing steady, long inhales like there’s tears that he's trying to hold back, and Shiro strokes through his raven hair, letting the silence stretch and take over the pressure to realign themselves. Shiro cards his fingers back and forth slowly, and turns away from the barren aching, trying instead to feed his boundless love into Keith.

* * *

A bath is always a good idea to soak the fuse before everything explodes. Wreathed in the heat of each other and the vapours of the milk bath they’re currently submerged in, they've reached a calm impasse.

Keith’s hands dip into the opaque water, lapping it gently against the sides of the bath in danger of overspilling around the sides. Every apartment Shiro’s ever lived in has had a bath too small for him to comfortably fit into and has resulted in him taking showers most of his adult life — now, with Keith, any way he finds to situate himself around his lithe body becomes heavenly.

He rests against the tub with Keith reclined against his chest and their hands possessing every wet inch under their fingertips. Shiro loves to hear Keith’s breath quiver when he strokes up his stomach and drips below the water to touch the glowing warmth of his thighs, kiss the curve of his shoulder and watch him turn his head to kiss his dewy, soft mouth.

“You feeling better, baby?” Shiro breathes over the shell of his ear.

“Mm,” Keith trills, contentment fading into his veins to untangle all his knots.

Shiro’s running the tips of his fingers up and down Keith's shoulders, nuzzling his neck and letting his hands drift to Keith's chest, abs and down to his beloved thighs, with no clear journey to his touches other than to soothe a myriad of his own knots.

“Are you feeling better?” Keith asks, returning the question and tilting his head slightly into Shiro’s neck, listening.

“Yeah, baby. Always with you,” Shiro says, feeling the underlying ebb of his thoughts as mercurial as spring weather patterns; silly, nonsensical things that needn’t claw at him this much but are still irritating him for letting them take up so much mental real estate. He kisses Keith’s neck to stop them from becoming monstrous.

“I didn’t ask you how things went last night, setting up for the princess,” Keith asks, unwittingly.

Shiro takes a pausing breath. There doesn’t seem to be any good way of approaching that loaded gun. Shiro would’ve put it aside and thought to perhaps mention it as an elaboration of why he felt restless this morning, if Keith had asked. Approaching it now whilst in the peace of their bath may shatter it, but Shiro wants to be honest, they’ve always been honest with each other and Keith’s trust in him is absolute, likewise, Shiro’s trust in Keith is just as infinite.

“It was odd,” he says, the same thing he told Matt when he’d asked, a barren explanation that only offers up more questions, and of course, Keith asks.

“What do you mean?”

The whole trajectory of the evening was a parabola of mishaps he’d rather not have to detail to Keith, as well as the unwarranted whiskey gift that felt like a bribe more than anything innocent. “It felt odd for her assistants to go home and leave just the two of us to deal with the dresses, me and Corina.”

“What’s odd about that? She’s always doing shit like that, trying to get you inside her pocket.”

“Alright,” Shiro tries again, “then I guess putting one of the dresses on and asking if I would slow dance with her was the oddest thing of the night.”

There’s a terrifying stillness to Keith when he looks off and doesn’t say anything straightaway.

“She really asked that?” Keith inquires, after what feels like minutes.

“Yeah,” Shiro answers.

“And you did it?” Keith says, so neutral it’s unreadable.

Shiro tenses suddenly, caught between what the right thing to say would be, “I...Keith—”

“—I don’t care if you did,” Keith replies immediately and without a single shred of accusation. “I just, y’know...she’s still on her same bullshit.”

Keith pulls his knees up above the water in island mounds next to Shiro’s legs and pulls his metal arm over his shoulder, lacing their fingers together loosely.

Assuaged by the gesture, Shiro kisses Keith’s shoulder and hugs him close. “How can you tell a heart to beat a certain way?”

“You can't,” Keith answers, point-blank. “You can’t tell ‘em to do anything, they do what they want. Fucking scumbag things.”

Shiro blurts out a laugh into Keith’s shoulder and kisses it afterwards, still smiling.

It definitely could be an affliction. Shiro certainly _feels_ like he’s had heart problems ever since he met Keith. He feels the constant squeeze of his fingers dangling over Keith’s shoulder like Keith’s building up to say something but is mulling over it, constantly moving his thumb back and forth over the ridges of his metal palm.

“You’ve got no interest in her and she doesn’t get it. And you won't tell her you’re with someone because she’s so jealous she’ll find out that it’s me and it’ll come back onto my mom.”

The tone’s dipped with unease and Shiro releases their hands to make Keith look at him, seeing the clear line between his brows. “I’ve dealt with this since my modelling days, Keith. It’s safer for both of us if I keep my private life exactly that — private.”

“But _why?_ ” Keith protests, “Why does it even have to be like this? We’re two grown-ass men who have to tip-toe with our relationship. What’s it to them who you're with? You can do whatever the hell you want.”

Shiro glides his hands up and down Keith’s sides, hushing him with nuzzles to his cheek to placate him. “Darling, don’t get worked up.”

“ _No._ ” Keith’s hand smacks the water. “I’m fucking _over_ this, Shiro. I don’t want to hide anymore.”

“I know, baby. I know." Keith’s looming close to a full blow-up. The four walls echo with his rising irritation and Shiro presses gentle kisses to his temple, to his cheeks, to the corners of his lips and to his mouth, soothing him until he calms down.

"I don't want to do this anymore, Shiro,” Keith whines, turning his neck and whimpering into every one of the kisses Shiro’s feeding him, an overwrought burn wrenching Shiro's heart. He hears Keith in the deepest recesses, and he's pressing kisses to his nape, the side of his ear, his temple, wanting to melt away all the anger.

"Ok, baby. It’s ok, shhh." Shiro coils his arms around Keith and keeps soothing him, keeps his body watertight against his back and Keith’s anger gradually devolves, the stubborn set of his jaw softening with mewling sighs and he clutches the back of Shiro's neck, shuddering with every stroke of his nipples and every soft bite on his lips. Shiro’s content to listen to him quiver, swallowing every honeyed sound until his expression closes over.

"Fuck, everyone wants you Shiro, do you know how crazy that makes me?"

Shiro knows. From the depths of him he _knows_ it arouses Keith to no end how much people thirst and pine and make fools of themselves in front of him, in front of _Keith_ , even. He loves watching the maelstrom of pleasure unfurl each and every time Keith gets that look in his eye like _mine, this is all mine_ and Shiro goes single-minded with desire every fucking time.

"I’m all yours, baby. Only yours.” Shiro's prosthetic thumb draws a line over smouldering lips and Keith’s mouth opens to take it in, bite it and melt like treacle when Shiro twirls his other thumb around the head of his cock and makes Keith's head tip back, wet sighs drifting overhead.

“Ahh, _yesss_ , Shiro...” he sighs to the languid strokes, languid pulls of his cock. He opens his mouth wide to gasp and rut up into Shiro’s closed palm.

“There’ll be no going back if we choose this,” Shiro speaks close into Keith’s ear. “Do you want it still?” The uncertainty is still a fragile one, a new trepidation that Shiro’s trying to come to terms with. He’ll give Keith anything he wants, anything that falls, pleading and anguished, cradled in lush, throaty breaths, but he never wants to have to hear Keith beg to love him as openly and as unapologetically as he does.

Keith’s intrepid even when moaning out his pleasure for these four walls to play back to them. “I want it, Shiro.”

“Ok, baby. Then it’s done.” He kisses Keith’s lips as if to seal the deal. “No more.” No more secrets, no more hiding. Let the missiles fall where they may. Keith’s pulling him, dragging him closer and closer, making waves in the water when he throws his hips up and Shiro knows he’s nearing completion.

When Keith orgasms it's an intense but silent cry that holds Shiro's breath with it. He must've been holding it for years and years and years waiting for this slow-release moment of air to flow back into his lungs, finding the constant lap of Keith’s kiss open and giving, like the whole of him fills Shiro with brand new oxygen and he hasn’t merely stopped living for a single paralysed heartbeat.

Come the morning, they’ve reached a reconciliation in their relationship, discarding the dilemma of their secret relationship and setting it on fire in front of the black marbled facade of Monochrome. They make good on all of their stored-up public affection to have their first kiss under the blowing cherry blossoms and flowing crowds of Bridal Row.

It’s a parting kiss, before they have to head to opposite sides of the street and it’s on the same romantic level as those dramas where the sappiest, most cheese-filled moments between the main couple are usually what everyone’s been waiting the duration of the season for. For Shiro, he’s emerged from the other side of a black hole to hold Keith’s cheeks, bring him to his lips and hear the sighs of where the lines have finally eroded. The true crime would be to never not be kissing Keith, to tilt his chin and love him in all the varied angles a person can love another person.

When he pulls back, Keith’s smiling and blushing, biting softly at the edge of his lips and wetting them like he wants Shiro to do it all again, and Shiro just might, given half a chance. They ignore the wolf-whistles and make plans to see each other for lunch, and with the last brush of their separating hands, Shiro watches Keith's graceful smile turn around and head through into the dancing pink wind.


End file.
